Ren glops the sauce on two of the soft crackers, adds cheese, and mashes them together. “Shit, I bet we get a wildcard spot, at least in the playoffs.” He chews noisily.
“We keep playing like that, we’re going to the Eastern Conference final,” Zayne crows, leaning back so he can stretch his hamstring.
“The press wants you, Fletcher!” Harlowe calls to me.
I yank my jersey over my head, still soaked in sweat and adrenaline. My heart’s pounding like the bass from the intro music, and I feel ten feet tall. “Tell them I died,” I call back to Harlowe, squeezing the ice-cold juice box into my mouth. The sugar hits my brain.
Fuck, that’s good.
“Nope,” she says, smirking as she sticks her head into the locker room. “You scored twice and body-checked that guy into 1996. The cameras want your pretty face. Shirt on, please. They want you and Ellie.”
“No, shirt off!” Granny Murray boos.
I grab my stick and thud down the hall to stand next to Ellie like a knight. She gives me a brilliant smile.
“Coach,” I drawl.
“Do you get something out of the surprise bag?” one of the reporters demands.
“I got two goals, so I’m entitled.”
The reporters titter.
“I hear the Legos are popular items.”
“What it really needs are alcohol and condoms.”
Ellie gets very serious. “I have condoms in my tote bag. And I will give them away free to anyone who asks. We are not getting anyone pregnant—no baby-mama drama, please!”
“Are you in a relationship with one of the rink rats?” one reporter snickers to me.
“I actually prefer my fuck buddies to be hockey players.”
27
ELLIE
“Hey guys… you’re here.” I grimace as my aggressively large family crowds in the vestibule in front of the locker rooms.
“They wanted to see some hot NHL ass.” Granny Murray jerks her thumb. “I said I’d hook ’em up.”
My cousins all smile gleefully when they see Fletcher step away from the media scrum and head to the locker room. His silvery eyes narrow when he approaches.
“Fletch, you’re so hot!” my female family members catcall.
My dad is shoved to the front of the group.
Suddenly, my father, who always called me his baby girl, is face-to-chest-plate with the guy who snuck into my childhood bedroom and had his face between my legs.
I cross them.
Fletcher looks down at me from that impossible height, and his mouth twitches into a smirk.
“Uh, Dad, this is…”The guy who had his candy cane where the sun don’t shine.“This is our centerman.”
I can blame the flush of my cheeks on the media lights, right?
My dad doesn’t seem impressed. “Nice shot on goal,” he says to Fletcher flatly.
